


A Hazy Memory

by deedub



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedub/pseuds/deedub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A frustrated Prim and a hijacked Peeta struggle to remember an important event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hazy Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArabellaGwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArabellaGwen/gifts).



> I took quite a few liberties with the prompt - apologies in advance.

I remember so much. And then I remember very little. What I can recall seems strange and significant, and yet what I yearn to understand are the quiet, lost moments. Of those I can make no sense. 

For the first time in a long time, I allow myself to truly feel eighteen years old. A child, really, with no family left, no definite future, and emotions ranging from the typical moody teenager to rage, absolute rage that swallows me whole. 

I am just so angry. 

Angry at being left alone. Alone and neglected, because some choose to avoid me, and alone because others have been taken away. 

This is when I feel my most terrible. I mean, there has never really been a strong support for me anywhere among anyone, but to know such utter loneliness makes me ache. And ache turns to anxiety. Anxiety to frenzy. 

At that point, the doctors and nurses here in 13 leave me and return to observing through the one-way mirror, as if there will be some immediate psychotic break that must be documented, recorded, studied, rationalized, and all of the other useless motions they pass through under the guise of healing my battered mind. Sometimes I am allowed the independence to pace my small hospital room, but never with my hands free of the metal brace connecting wrist to wrist. More often, I am quickly injected with a sedative – I don’t even bother fighting off the wearying effects of the medicine anymore – and awake seated in my bed, trapped, metal cuffs encircling each bicep, elbow, wrist, and even thigh, all to keep me from doing physical harm to myself or others. 

I feel exhaustion, confusion, pain. I hate what things have become. I hate people.

Truthfully, there are only a handful of people that can walk through my heavily secured door without sending me into a tailspin, and I suppose I don’t actually hate them… I might hate whatever menial play/task has been assigned to them to get me to interact, but no, I don’t have ill feelings for them as individuals. Delly. Or Prim. How could anybody feel anger or resentment or anything on the side of negative towards young, lovely, peaceful Primrose Everdeen? 

She is everything that is good with humanity. 

But thinking and talking to her too long allows my mind to make the not-so-far-off jump to Katniss Everdeen. If I look at her face too long, I can see the same bone structure… the same bottom lip, overly plump and pink… and its only a matter of time, really, until I lose control. And once I have gone there, it is literally impossible to come back to the land of the sane. 

And so for safety sake, Prim and I visit for exactly eight minutes at a time. Mostly she will bring me a photo, or trinket, or some other physical reminder of what everyone here is saying I “was like before”. Because its Prim, I don’t tell her that these visits, lessons, therapy sessions, whatever, feel eerily like training for The Games with Haymitch. I am once again being told what to believe, how I should feel, and most painful, that the way I am, the way that feels most organically me right now, is wrong. The poisons are too deep, too ingrained in me to fight the ideas, the resentment nonstop every moment I am awake and functioning. I can resist the fits of insanity if I am well rested, but its still a challenge… 

And just because I don’t act enraged physically, means to these doctors that my mind is a serene pool as well, when in fact I am mentally running laps, trying to grasp at truth, rationale … and largely coming up short.

This is my secret, though. Mine alone. 

There is a knock at my door and immediately my lips curl up into a small smile. Prim is the only person here in 13 that bothers to knock. “Come in,” I toss to the door, adjusting myself slightly so I am sitting up on the bed better to talk to her. Its difficult without the use of both wrists, but I can manage. The door slides open and shut and deposits Prim in my space. She is holding a small white cloth bag. 

“Good afternoon, Peeta,” she says softly, smiling gently and taking small, slow steps towards the bed. A chair has been placed just out of arms reach for me from where I currently sit, and she makes her way there, pausing once to touch the earpiece and listen for whatever instructions she is being given. She sighs heavily – I immediately recognize the feeling of frustration – pulls the bud from her ear, shoves it into the pocket of her hospital smock, turning to the mirror where we are being monitored, and with palm outstretched mouths “Five minutes!”

So whatever she has in mind for our visit comes at the disapproval of the doctors of 13. I like it already.

“I have something for you today, something that you will love. It wasn’t easy to come by, and required a lot of persuasion, but… (another sigh) I want you to have a good day today, Peeta.”

We maintain eye contact until just before she places the linen bag into my hands. I loosen the drawstring and surprise myself when I gasp at the small loaf of bread inside. Really its more of an oversized dinner roll, but its bread no less, a round boule made with spelt flour, I can tell. I haven’t seen or held bread since the terribly ominous miniature rolls in the arena… But this isn’t arena bread, or even Capitol bread or the dry crumbly cracker that desperately needed salt of 13.

This is bread of home.

I have made thousands and thousands of loaves just like this. I turn it over and over in my hands, bring it close to my face to fully capture the aroma. The crust is overcooked, I can immediately tell by the color and the lack of spring, but otherwise it is lovely.  
Whoever baked this even knew to score the top to allow for expansion – this loaf has a single slash, my breads carry my trademark four curved lines, looking almost like a blossom. 

I finally look up at Prim. Her face is unreadable, but I think she may be pleased with her experiment. “Its beautiful,” I tell her, handing it back. But she only pushes the boule back into my grip.

“Its yours.”

She nods, too, and I give in to my curiosity and rip the small loaf in half, bringing one exposed, inner sponge closer for inspection. I rip a small piece from the inside and immediately chew and swallow, closing my eyes, seeking out better memories from home. 

Streaks of flour across a butcher block counter. 

Stoking the fire, tossing branch after twisted branch into the metal grate.

Crushing rosemary between my fingers and appreciating the lingering scent until my bath at night.

The blue linen rag that was always in my pocket, to catch drops of sweat on my forehead or to wipe my hands across at the sound of the bell, indicating a paying customer.

The long handle of the wooden peel, mostly smooth but did offer a sliver from time to time.

Before I realize, I have already eaten half the loaf. I am under the spell of memories, happy, fulfilling times with raw ingredients, making something from nothing…

“We don’t have a lot of time left, and they will make me leave soon. Very soon. Will you promise me, Peeta, that you will try to think of the good parts of home today? The bakery? Trading with customers? Icing cakes?” She blinks. Excessively. There is more. 

Something else she is weighing the value of approaching with me. 

“Prim.” She looks up, I catch her nervous gaze. “I’m okay, you can say what you need to”

She leans forward, closer than she has been before when we meet, gripping my left wrist tightly. “You gave my family bread. Do you remember? It was important. To us. It was important to us, Katniss and I, You saved us, Peeta. You were a young boy but you knew what one person could truly do for another.”

I could give myself a headache with the speed and ferocity in which I clamp my eyes shut to block out the hallucinations of Katniss Everdeen. I’m not ready to think about her today, but she sweeps into my mental vision uninvited so I steer myself into memories of her that aren’t so toxic…

Two braids and a red dress.

A little girl with her father. Both of them singing.

My own father, pointing her out of a crowd to me. Knowing then that she was special.

Katniss alone, the man disappeared. 

Faces thin, ribs protrude.

Rain.

Heavy, heavy rain.

Katniss alone. A child, left to the elements. Slinking past our back door.

The rest floods me and overtakes me. My eyes fly open. Prim is still here, still clutching onto my wrist.

“I remember. My mother, the pigs, burning the loaves, the rain – there was so much rain!” It is pouring out of me now. “She ran, Katniss ran once she had the bread. And I knew it would be okay…”

“Yes! You were right – we were alright after that night, Peeta.”

Dandelions.

Why dandelions? 

The yellow, fluffy weed sticks to my mental imagery… until I recall the memory of Katniss picking one, and then bending down to pick another, and another…

She is important to me. 

She was important to me…

“I’d like to see her.”


End file.
